


Spit & Shine

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s03e05 Bedtime Stories, M/M, Spanking, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-10
Updated: 2008-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You think this is some kind of game or something?” Dean yells, challenging Sam’s gaze with a scowl of his own. “Because I’m not in the mood for jokes, Sam. You went to summon that damn crossroads bitch last night, didn’t you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spit & Shine

**Author's Note:**

> This is a kinky Wincestuous coda to S3 E05, Bedtime Stories. It contains major spoilers for that episode, and also became AU after 3x06 Red Sky at Morning aired. There is no death, but a lot of it involves Sam thinking about Dean dying. Angsty, NC-17, spanking, pretty rough Impala sex.

They’re fifty miles out of town before Dean speaks in a would-be casual voice, belied by the way he grips the steering wheel and the stiffness in his neck. Sam can see how tight the muscles are, how Dean’s not going to be giving an inch on this one. “So, Sammy,” he says, and Sam detects the flint just below the surface, despite the easygoing tone. “Woke up last night, and I didn’t see you.”

Sam knows that Dean knows, and he’s sick of this dancing around the issues and the way they can’t just _say_ anything in this family without two tons of bullshit piled on top. “Oh yeah, didn’t I tell you?” he asks. “My visions went away, but now I can turn invisible whenever I want.” He spits the last part out, folding his arms and glaring at his brother. If Dean wants a fight, they can fight, and Sam can fight dirty.

“You think this is some kind of game or something?” Dean yells, challenging Sam’s gaze with a scowl of his own. “Because I’m not in the mood for jokes, Sam. You went to summon that damn crossroads bitch last night, didn’t you?”

Sam doesn’t say anything, and of course this only infuriates Dean further. “Answer me!” he orders, taking his eyes off the road again to glare at his brother.

“It looks like it doesn’t matter whether I answer or not, Dean,” he says finally, an edge of resentment in his voice. “You’ve already made up your mind about what you’re going to believe.”

“Dammit, Sam, I told you to leave that alone!” Dean swears loudly, slamming on the brakes, his voice dangerously close to cracking. “What happened? Did you try to get out of the deal?”

“Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Sam asks defensively. He regrets it as soon as he says it, because John was still alive right after he made the deal, long enough to see Dean one last time and impart his final words of wisdom that they’re both disregarding for now.

“Just tell me, Sam,” Dean says softly, almost pleadingly, and Sam can’t say no. He doesn’t have the heart to ignore the pain in Dean’s eyes, the way he’s begging Sam to tell him what he wants to hear. Even if Dean is being an unreasonable ass, and a selfish one at that, he can’t stand the worried look.

“I shot the demon, Dean, but it didn’t break the deal.” Sam speaks slowly, still trying to process what he’s saying on some level. “She said someone else wanted your soul badly enough that there was no getting out of this one.”

Saying the words aloud somehow gives them validation, and Sam’s throat closes up, his chest cold with fear and his palms sweating. He swallows, trying to breathe around the lump of his fear and shame, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. He whistles in relief, mutters, “Thank God.” His shoulders relax and his grip on the steering wheel loosens as he drives.

They get ten miles deeper into nowhere before Dean speaks again, this time considerably calmer, back in familiar territory, “You know I told you not to do that, Sammy.” He shakes his head as if he can’t believe Sam would do something so stupid.

Sam’s stomach turns over, his abstract, intellectualized fear replaced by a more present physical danger. Dean’s not afraid anymore, he’s angry. Angry that Sam jeopardized his precious deal, angry that Sam disobeyed him. Somehow when Dean’s angry he gets quiet, and Sam wishes to God that he was still yelling. “Well, I had to try,” Sam defends himself, because he did have to try. He still has to keep trying.

“You didn’t have to do anything, Sam,” Dean corrects gently, “except maybe follow orders for once in your life.”

Sam doesn’t dignify this with a response, just grinds his teeth.

“You know I’m going to have to punish you for this,” Dean continues, annoyingly matter-of-fact. Sam turns his eyes to his brother, using all the charm and helplessness he can summon to appeal to his brother’s chivalry.

“Please, Dean, I’m sorry,” he apologizes. He squirms in his seat, edging away from his brother, and he can feel the muscles in his ass tighten uncomfortably. He feels like he’s ten years old again, and he knows he sounds like it but he doesn’t care. “I just—I just wanted to help you. Don’t do this. Please.”

Dean’s face is deliberately turned away from those big eyes. He glances into the rearview mirror. The back road is still deserted, a small state highway replaced years ago by the parallel interstate system. He brakes again, gently this time, and pulls over on the side of the road without bothering to signal. “No can do, Sammy,” he says. “I gave you a direct order and I’m still calling the shots, at least for the next few months. Come on.”

He opens the door and gets out of the car. Sam follows reluctantly, trying to pretend his heart hasn’t frozen again at the words “a few months.” Not that it isn’t all he ever thinks about anymore, anyway.

The sun is bright, glaring on the Impala’s fender and warming the glistening metal. Dean gestures to the trunk. “I want your bare ass in the air by the time I count to ten,” he says firmly. “One.”

Sam thinks for a minute that maybe he’ll protest, tell Dean he doesn’t want to do this, not out in the open, bent over the goddamn car, but he knows that Dean wouldn’t pay him any attention, unless it’s some unwanted attention for arguing about a spanking. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dean decided to make this an extra-special ass beating if he stalled, and dug around in the car for the black silk ties that his brother always finds more appealing around Sam’s wrists than around their necks. So he drops his pants and pushes his boxers down slowly, as if by postponing the inevitable by seconds it will disappear. _Like Mom, like her friends. Like Dean._

“Eight…” Dean’s voice takes on a note of warning, and Sam drapes himself over the back of the car, palms down even though he’ll probably end up paying for a car wash later. He tenses himself, waiting for his brother to begin. He’s excited despite himself, feeling the nervousness of their exposure and the impending pain. The metal is cool against his bare hips despite the sunshine, and he shivers a little in the wind.

The first slap is sharp and stings more than Sam had expected, somehow. He doesn’t make a sound as Dean’s palm descends again, this time on the other cheek. The blows aren’t much now, but he knows they’ll add up, the way they always do, and he’ll end up in tears, begging. And that’ll turn both of them on, somehow, and they’ll fuck, and Dean will forgive him. For now…

“I thought you understood that “no” means “no,” Sammy,” Dean says, slapping his ass again. He’s not being cruel, but the spanking is hard and fast. He’s serious about this, and the sting is already building up into an uncomfortable burn, and the crease at each thigh is sensitive from repeated attention. Sam’s having a hard time taking it, harder than usual, and he can’t resist a squirm, trying to evade the sharp blows and gain some friction at the same time.

Sam’s breath catches as the rhythm of the spanking changes. Dean lays three particularly vicious swats in the same location before moving on. “I said the whole idea was stupid, that it wouldn’t work. And look, did it work? No.” Dean’s voice catches. “It didn’t work. Thank God.”

Sam doesn’t need to be reminded, doesn’t need to revisit what he had felt when he realized that the demon was dead and nothing had changed.

“You should have just listened to me, Sam,” Dean says, pausing to run his aching hand across the dull red flesh, tracing one or two darker lines from his splayed fingers. His voice is steady now; he’s back in control. “We could have avoided this conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam gasps. His hips twitch convulsively at the gentler touch on his tingling skin, and he can feel his dick waking up on its own.

“Are you?” Dean breathes softly into his ear.

“Yes,” Sam promises. “Yes, Dean, I am, really sorry…” He arches his back, not daring to lift his hands and look his brother in the eyes but aching to be closer to him.

“Good.” Dean straightens back up and begins spanking again. Sam winces at the enthusiasm Dean has for his task. “You could have died,” he growls, and the next blow is enough to push the tears down Sam’s cheeks, although he doesn’t cry out. It’s not so much the physical pain anyway, he knows, as it is everything adding up.

“You could have died,” Dean repeats in a hushed whisper, and he stands back, tugs Sam roughly to his feet. “You can’t _do_ that to me,” he says, before pulling Sam in for a kiss. It’s hard and fast like Dean’s worried he won’t get another chance, and Sam can hardly breathe. His tears have run into his mouth, and Dean’s tongue carries the saltiness across his lips, circling his taste buds. Despite the pain and the inability to forget his failures, Sam’s getting hard on the side of the freeway, inflamed bottom pressed against the car, Dean pressed against his groin.

Dean breaks away eventually, his green eyes speculative as he takes Sam’s chin in his hands and studies his brother’s face.

“Dean…” Sam implores, his hands reaching for Dean’s shoulders. “Dean…”

“You’re not sorry,” Dean says, shaking his head and breathing heavily. “You’re not sorry.”

Sam whimpers a little in the back of his throat, because he isn’t sorry. He wants Dean more than anything else in this world—now, on the side of the highway, and every day after this. For years. “No,” he admits so softly he’s not sure Dean can hear him.

“I saved your life, Sammy,” Dean reminds him almost angrily, taking his hands and turning him around so that he’s facing the Impala again. Dean doesn’t have to push him back in place, but this time he spreads his legs a little wider, hoping. “That means you do what I say.” Sam can hear his brother’s zipper coming down, and it’s a good thing he wants this so much, because he doesn’t think Dean’s about to bother with lube. “That means you belong to me.”

And somehow all the fears, the ache in his cheeks, they don’t mean anything. The words are the spark he needs, and he can hear Dean spit into his palm, getting ready to push his way in. Sam’s ass is spread over the hood, providing easy access when Dean enters without warning. The spit isn’t quite enough to stop the ache of the stretching, but Sam doesn’t care, not now.

“Dean!” he cries, his voice cracking with longing, thrusting his hips back into his brother, feeling the heat from their bodies combine.

“What is it, Sammy?” Dean asks roughly, easing out slowly, inch by inch.

“Dean, please, fuck me…” Sam is begging, and he isn’t ashamed. Dean is teasing him, leaving a loose empty space that throbs without anything to fill it, to make him forget how much it burns. But it’s a good burn at the same time, and he brings both hands to the base of his cock, only to have his brother smack them away.

“I didn’t say you could touch yourself,” Dean reminds him, his voice low and still angry somehow.

“Please Dean, please, I need it harder, I need you…” Sam is babbling, not even sounding coherent in his own ears, and he doesn’t care, because he knows Dean will understand. They know each other well enough that words are unnecessary. Dean slides back in, faster, fucking quick and violent in a way that will tear the skin, leave marks. And as Sam feels his climax building inside him, Dean leans over his body and _bites_ the nape of his neck as he pounds in again, and then they both lose control and fresh tears spring to Sam’s eyes at the force of it, the lack of restraint.

He knows that soon it will be over. He’ll have to sit on his aching ass all the way to the next town, falling asleep if he’s lucky to dull the pain. He’ll have marks in the morning, bruises and blood in places that no one else will see, no one but him and Dean. And that’s the way he wants it. He wants to feel Dean inside him, wants the pain to linger for days when he presses down in the right places, reminding him that Dean’s still with him, that Dean still cares enough to touch him and take him. Because as needy as Dean is, and as lost as he would be without Sam…Sam needs Dean more than he will ever know.

“You know you’re cleaning that off my car, bitch,” Dean says, sliding back out of Sam, fixing his jeans and landing one solid swat on Sam’s butt as he tries to stand.

Sam tries to say _“Whatever, jerk,”_ but somehow the words don’t come. He swallows, nods. It’s going to be a long drive.  



End file.
